


Dance With Me - Johnlock

by InkInMyFingertips



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: (I love them too much to hurt them), (lots of it), 221B Baker Street, Angst, BBC, Cute, Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gay, Hair-pulling, Happy Ending, I promise, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Requited Love, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Super Submissive Sherlock, Tags May Change, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, doing my diddly-darn best, hope you like it, original cases, that's basically the whole show tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-01-12 08:25:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 18,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18442772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkInMyFingertips/pseuds/InkInMyFingertips
Summary: Sherlock Holmes. Probably the most interesting man on the planet, which leaves the question no one ever seems to think about;The most interesting man probably doesn't see himself as such, so who or what does he think is the most interesting?When it comes to Sherlock Holmes, the answer would be Dr. John Watson. He's so... intelligent yet stupid, so charming yet clueless, and so perfect. And while Sherlock can read him, -- most of the time, -- he's still the most perplexing, amazing, and interesting thing Sherlock has ever laid eyes on. But the one thing that confuses Sherlock the most about John is hilariously stupid, were you to ask anyone else. No, Sherlock finds himself most bemused with one issue;John can't dance to save his life. Nothing has ever bothered Sherlock more, and distractions, consequences, and hardships be damned, Sherlock WILL teach him to dance if it kills the both of them, which it very well may.





	1. Divert Your Gaze

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So this is the first time I'm posting a fic on Archive, woohoo! Um, I really hope you like it! If you'd like to get the chapters a little sooner, you can follow my Quotev: InkInMyFingertips because I usually update there first. Anyway, I'm gonna push out a bunch of chapters today, let me know what you think; I love feedback! I breathe it, actually. :) Enjoy!!

John barely knew him, but man, was he interested by him. Crushing on him, in fact. And Sherlock had even thought he was interested, which meant he definitely needed to work on not accidentally flirting with him. But there was one thing he couldn't stop thinking about, other than wanting Sherlock to examine him like he did crime scenes, no.

He would've taken the pill if he hadn't shot. And even in the happy moments afterwards, where Sherlock and Watson laughed stupidly about the whole thing, the thought plagued Watson.

Sherlock got his kicks by narrowly escaping death, got his high from solving these threatening puzzles, got off on laying down on the train tracks, just to prove he knew how to dodge the engines underneath. He loved the thrill, which probably explained the nicotine patches. Just a calmer thrill. 

Getting out of bed, Watson snuggled into the collar of his sweatshirt, getting up out of bed and cursing the fact he was only wearing boxers, it was really cold. Padding past Sherlock's bedroom, he walked down into the living room and grabbed a waffle cookie out of the cabinet, before curling up in a chair and pulling the blanket over himself, munching quietly while he collected his thoughts.

"John," Sherlock's voice was light, but it shocked Watson into an upright position, "why are you awake?" John finally noticed Sherlock sitting in one window, only in a pair of flannel pants, the milky skin on his back shining in the moonlight, which illuminated and filtered through his hair in a majestic, intriguing way.

"I'm too jittery, but I could ask you the same," John commented, shifting in his chair uncomfortably, willing Sherlock to keep staring out the window.

"And if you were to, I'd tell you that I'd rather think than sleep," Sherlock said, holding up his arm, which was dotted in nicotine patches. Still an odd habit, but Watson figured it wasn't as bad as smoking to get the stimulation.

"Well, what are you thinking about?" John asked timidly, gently biting off part of his cookie.

"Thanks for shooting. I just need to know if I was right," he muttered, doing his best to sit still.

"No, you don't," Watson chuckled, "it's fine, because you're okay now,"

"Sure, yep," Holmes nodded and folded his hands, resting his head against them. John blinked.

"...you still wanna kn-"

"Of course I do, John!" Sherlock nearly shouted, but not too loud. Best not to wake Mrs. Hudson.

"Alright. Okay. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Sherlock," John frowned, turning to look the other way. Sherlock's head snapped around, and he leapt out of the window, taking two huge Sherlockian strides to kneel at John's feet.

"W- wait, no! No! God, don't be sorry, don't be sorry, please don't be sorry! It isn't your fault, don't be s-" Sherlock rambled, before catching himself in that moment. Vulnerable. Caring. He couldn't be either, it would get in the way of his work. Clearing his throat, he walked back to the window as he mumbled apologies.

"Sh- Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked, standing up as Sherlock tugged roughly at his own curls, still talking to himself in a quiet panic.

"Yes, yes I'm fine! I'm always fine!" He bit down on his hand, actually drawing blood, announcing that he was fine in a way that made it seem like he was trying to convince himself. He continued to talk into his hand, teeth sinking into the skin, conversing incoherently with his own head. Watson walked over, concerned, and tentatively rested a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder. The detective visibly flinched, shivering, but slowly calmed and put his hands back in his lap, reduced to soft, detached whispers.

"You're not fine," John said softly, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder to stop him from interrupting, "but that's okay. You don't have to be fine, and you don't have to be right, eith-" John started to explain, but Sherlock sat up straight and yelped loudly.

"No, no no no, no, John! I have to be right, John, I have to be right! Otherwise, I'm just a fucking useless waste of space, I'm stupid, stupid, stupid!" he whimpered, jumping out of John's grip and slamming his head into the wall, tapping it pointedly, eyes wide in some sort of horror. "Ow, o- ow~..." he crumpled to the floor, having dizzied himself. Watson just stared blankly, no idea what to do. 

"Sherlock?" John whispered, leaning down to where the detective cowered and covered his face. "If we walk upstairs, I'll make you some lemonade, and we can just lay still and think. Would that be alright, Sherlock?" he cooed softly, patting Sherlock's unruly curls. Sherlock raised his head to nod slightly, eyes vacant and not as wildly twinkling as they usually were. He steadied himself, and trudged up the stairs, being closely followed by Watson, lemonade tray in hand.

"J- John, John..." Sherlock whined softly, -- like a dog, -- and held his knees to his chest as he rocked back and forth, brain whirring at a hundred miles an hour. He was so glad John had shot that motherfucker of a cabbie, but... was he right?

"One second," John huffed, setting down his tray on Sherlock's night table before hopping onto the bed and crawling over to where Sherlock frantically rocked and whimpered, like an animal kicked into the rain. Gently pulling the detective to the center of the bed, John moved his hands down and massaged gently at the junction between Sherlock's thighs and hips, hitting the pressure point, making him unfurl from his panic-ball. Briefly forgetting that pressure points do that, Sherlock's pupils shrank horrendously, even in the fairly dark room. "Shh, shh... calm down, Sherlock, it's okay, you're okay," John hushed, tenderly pushing his thumbs into the other tense parts of Sherlock, making the taller man let out a rich, ragged sigh.

"It does not matter if I was holding the right pill," Sherlock whispered, eyes shut tight as he appreciated Watson's careful massage, the brunette visibly relaxing, sinking into the bed.

"Good boy, yes," John agreed, carefully loosening the detective's shoulders. Sherlock sighed, eyes finally opening. His green-blue iris' were calm, collected again, and his pupils probably weren't dilated, it was just the dark. Either way, he was fine now.

"It doesn't matter..." Sherlock repeated, brushing a hand through his messed-up curls, and smiling brokenly at his flatmate. He shook his head, emitting a soft, incredulous chuckle. "I- I'm sorry, John. Sorry. I don't do this. This is just an episode, I don't want you to think of me like this, because I'm not this, I-"

"Sherlock," John warned steadily, putting a hand on the taller boy's knee. 

"Right, you're right. I am wrong, you are right, and that is okay," the taller boy said, looking to Watson for approval.

"That's it. Here," John passed the other man a glass of lemonade, rubbing his shoulder encouragingly as he slowly drank it down, eyes relaxing substantially. He handed the glass back to John, who set it on the night table, and turned back to Sherlock, who was counting his fingers.

"I'm okay," Sherlock muttered quietly, picking up John's hand and examining it tiredly.

"Exactly, there you go," John nodded, letting his hand be manipulated if it calmed the detective, "it's okay, it doesn't matter who's right or wrong. You're here, and you're alive, and the cabbie is dead now. It's all okay," John whispered, smiling to himself as Sherlock relaxed into his pillows and lay down, icy eyes now closed, face calm and resting.

"Moriarty isn't. B- but it's okay," Sherlock echoed, sleepily licking his lips and tugging the blankets over his shoulders. 

"It is," John slid carefully off the bed and crept into his own room, sitting down and falling back asleep. 

It was sort of weird to see a man who constantly reminded others he was a sociopath having a full-blown panic attack.

High-functioning sociopath, sorry.


	2. You Distract Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's in a trance. Not his usual kind, though. He just can't seem to focus, and he doesn't need to set up an experiment to know that the problem is John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next one! Hope you like it.

"The game, John! The game is alive, as are we!" Sherlock shouted, laughing crazily. God, was that hot.

"I suppose so," Watson grumbled, tugging on a coat and chasing the detective out the door. 

"So here's what we know, our killer is definitely an acrobat, and can scale walls. How he does it without anyone noticing, I can't be sure, but we'll figure that out when we have to spider in there ourselves," Holmes explained, waving his arms passively.

"We're gonna climb a buil-?" Watson tried to interrupt, but Sherlock steamrolled over him.

"We're also certain that they communicate in an ancient Chinese number dialect, we just don't know how to decode that, and I'm under the impression that Soo Lin Yao is our key to the system," he looked behind him at Watson over his collar, raising his eyebrows in a hidden smile, "and I am always, always right,"

"Dammit, you are," John chuckled, jogging after him and chasing him down.

 

~~~

 

/// You know what? Let's break the fourth wall. You've seen the episode, you know how it goes. You've watched John be amazed by how... impressive and intelligent Sherlock is, and how stunning he looks sweeping the street with the tails of his cloak, and you've seen the doctor be memorized by the way Sherlock discards his scarf, revealing those tall and gorgeous lines in his neck and collarbone, smirking at John through those gaunt collar bones before carefully swinging himself into Soo Lin's apartment, leaving John behind just to distance himself from the shorter boy, fearing that loneliness was the one thing that he could trust himself not to fall in love with at this point. Which, in turn, left John sitting at the door, rather pissed that he'd been kicked once more. Because he was crushing on Sherlock only-works-alone Holmes, the fucking genius who didn't NEED him, didn't want him, didn't care about him in the slightest. Until, of course... ///

 

~~~

 

"Which means our spider is still here," Sherlock concluded aloud, to himself, icy eyes twinkling with his own sort of high. He can explain his addiction later, there are more important things in his head. Like where the spider is now... Eyes darting along the room, he inched closer the folding wall in the corner. Gently placing his hand on the rim, he-

began to choke. Gasping for air, feeling his back pressed up against the fabric of his insect's clothing. e scratched his neck, trying to pry himself from it and regain breath. Coughing and spluttering, Sherlock's first instinct was not to call for help.

No.

Instead...

He called for John. 

"J- John!" he croaked, trying to wrap his fingers under the fabric around his neck. He could feel his chest tightening, and his vocal chords being jostled as his throat was constricted. "John! J- J... John..." he panted out, his vision going fuzzy as his brain whirred and his gut coiled warmly. Laying on the ground, he felt his stomach and chest clench as they filled with air again. Coughing and putting his scarf back on, he made sure it wasn't too tight and went to open the door.

"Sherlock, what in hell?" John huffed, going to walk inside. Sherlock pushed him out, and began walking down the street.

"N- no, she's not there," he managed hoarsely. Grabbing John near forcefully by the arm, he began taking those huge Sherlockian strides down the sidewalk, Watson jogging alongside him. 

"You okay? Your voice sounds off," John asked curiously.

"Fine. Fine, I'm fine," Sherlock coughed, walking faster still. He couldn’t be weak in front of John, he just couldn’t.

 

~~~

 

"Um... John." Sherlock said, pale face flushing at the cheeks. 

"What's that?" John looked up from his computer, eyes still sparkling. Damn his gorgeous eyes.

"Could you maybe... sit in the other chair? I- I'm sorry, I just can't f- focus. You're distracting me a bit," he admitted.

"What, by sitting here?" John chuckled. Sherlock just blinked pleadingly, and John huffed and switched chairs.

"Th- thanks..." he muttered, fluffing his own curls and pulling his collar up, -- not to look cool, -- to wipe the perspiration collecting against his neck. Tapping his foot in an arrhythmical, panicked, bordering on insanely erratic pattern. Eyes scanning his map and set of photos, he realized his mistake.

Not in the case, he'd never made any mistakes there. 

No, he screwed up because in the reflection of the photos, he could see John's face. His gorgeous, mesmerizing eyes alight as he watched Sherlock work and think and stare intently, but... Sherlock wasn't working or thinking. His brain was foggy, and he swayed uneasily.

"Are you... alright there, Sherlock?" John asked, concerned.

"Yep, fine. I'm always fine, I'm fine," Sherlock nodded, eye twitching, swaying dizzily on his unsteady feet. He couldn't take it, couldn't take it. Needed to distract himself from being distracted, and the case sure wasn't doing that. No way to do such a thing, though... unless...

Pain is always an effective distracting factor. Looping a finger through a front belt loop on his tight black pants and gripping the waistband, he pulled up, whimpering softly as he struggled to stay upright, trying to cause himself enough pain by digging the button into his hipbone as he could, but alas, Watson still had his eyes trained on him, and he was losing his grip on focus. Nothing, nothing...

Pretending to be confused, -- which of course, he wasn't, -- he placed his hand on his cheek, and set his thumb between his teeth, biting hard to enough to draw blood. The taste of iron and blood briefly disarmed him, but he couldn't shake the knowledge that John's gorgeous blue eyes were trained on him. John was interested, infatuated, and god, Sherlock was losing his self control.

In a last ditch effort to regain some control or something, -- he couldn't remember the motive at this point, -- Sherlock carefully wrapped his long, pale, and slender finger in his curls and yanked hard, doubling over. He didn't tug at his hair often, it caused him huge pain, which was why it was weird when a soft moan tumbled inexplicably out of Sherlock's mouth. He hated the pain of his hair being pulled, Mycroft used to do it when they were little. But when he was thinking about Watson...

It felt good. Really, really, really good. 

"Sherlock?" John stood up, walking over. Sherlock's cheeks got red, and he carefully backed up, nearly falling down the stairs.

"I, uh... I'm g- gonna go and uh... see if Mycroft knows anything and ask about that uh, that West guy, um... I'll be home by six, bye, John!" he squeaked, dashing down the stairs.

"Sher-?"

"I'm fine, John!" he called up, running out the door. Immediately turning through into an alley, he walked down the steps into a spot that had recently been abandoned by his homeless network, making it a spot for him to think. Barely getting down the stairs before collapsing against a concrete pillar, gently scratching his cheek against it. Ignoring that, he just whimpered loudly, rolling his hips to stand up, hissing at the contact, and sitting down on the floor. 

Spreading his legs out for balance and burying his head in his hands, he started thinking. No leads in the case. No way to think with John around, anymore. Nothing turning up in his head, he grabbed his curls again, pulling long and hard this time, making him yelp and then mewl, actually against his own accord. Unaccustomed to that... nice, warm feeling, he did it again, keening as something good found itself mixing with Sherlock's with self-hatred, all in a churning concoction in his stomach. "F- fuck..." he breathed out, leaning down and resting his head on the ground, arms sprawled out. Flipping over onto his back, he sighed. "I'm f- fucking useless," he whimpered. Couldn't even solve a case with John in the room, what a failure. "Fucking useless. I'm fucking useless," he repeated, voice choked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My poor babyyyyy~~~ :( Don't worry, he's fine. Promise I'll update more, soon. Thoughts?


	3. The Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock stood and walked to the window, the violin becoming louder, and John was entirely transfixed. A haunting melody, but nearly romantic. Playing slowly, Sherlock moved around the room as if he were holding a partner instead of a violin. His face grew calmer and normal, eyes closed as he waltzed with the music.
> 
> "You're staring, John," Sherlock said, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, his eyes still closed.
> 
> "How do you dance?" John blurted out, mesmerized. 
> 
> The music stopped.
> 
> "You... you don't know how to dance?" Sherlock asked, cocking an incredulous brow and opening his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next one, lemme know what you're thinking!

'Sorry,' Moriarty mouthed, humming softly in response to what the caller said.

'It's okay,' Sherlock scowled, chancing a quick look at his partner, who was shaking in his shoes. He moved his leg closer to John, who gently reached out a put a hand on Sherlock's calf. It made no sense that it helped, but John visibly calmed. Sherlock offered a concerned and loving look, met with a hazy gaze.

"SAY THAT AGAIN!!" Moriarty shouted suddenly, scaring John back into his panic. He began shivering, and there was nothing Sherlock could do without getting shot, so he just blinked apologetically. "Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you, and I will skin you," he hissed calmly. Sighing, he put his phone down. "Sorry boys, wrong day to die," he sang, cocking his head theatrically.

"Mmm. Did you get a better offer?" Sherlock teased, towing the line gently.

"You'll be hearing from me, darling," Jim chuckled, carefully holding the phone back to his ear. "So if you have what you say you have, I'll make you rich," he hummed sweetly. "And if you don't, I'll turn you into shoes," he finished lowly, snapping once to call off his snipers. The laser points disappeared, and Sherlock collapsed on his knees to tend to John, who, -- by the way, -- is fine by now. Just shaken, slightly.

"J- John, are you okay?" he set his hands on John's shoulders, fixing him with an intense blue-green stare, which put John in imminent danger of grabbing Sherlock by those goddamn cheekbones and kissing him down onto his back, against the floor, and keeping him there. But he stayed calm.

"I'm okay, Sherlock," he whispered hollowly, taking a deep, gasping breath.

"I- I could carry you or something, d- do you need help or anything?" Sherlock just, just, just wanted to help.

"I'm alright. Are you okay, though?" John reached out and put his hand on the detective's jaw.

"I'm fine," Sherlock scoffed, standing up on shaking knees and nearly stumbling backwards into the pool.

"You sure? You don't look so good," Watson commented, rushing over to steady the brunette.

"I'm fine, John!" Sherlock shouted, but swayed dizzily anyway. Deciding it was best not to press it, he intertwined their fingers carefully, and led the taller man back to their apartment, looking back at Sherlock from time to time, always seeing the lights of London coloring Sherlock's otherwise pale face, his gorgeous eyes darting around in a panicked haze. But he was mostly okay, his breath still fairly even.

“Here,” John offered, pulling open the door to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock took a deep breath and jogged up the stairs, quickly falling into his armchair, chest heaving. "Do you need anything?" John asked, walking over and putting a hand on Sherlock's bouncing knee. Sherlock winced.

"Where did I put my violin?" he asked softly.

"You left it in your room, you need me to get it?" John offered, carefully reaching for the detective's hand, who moved it into his lap suddenly. 

"That'd be nice," Sherlock nodded, swallowing. John rushed off to grab it, leaving Sherlock alone with the thought he'd been doing everything he could to keep at bay. He could've lost John. He could've lost his blogger, he was very nearly alone again. He couldn't be alone again. Not after he'd had a taste of companionship, of happiness, of John.

"Here, Sherlock," John muttered, pushing the instrument into his flatmate's hands. Sighing loudly, he dragged the bow across the string, visibly relaxing and shuddering pleasantly, eyes fluttering closed as a soft and ragged sigh left his open mouth. Damn. John had to shove his hands in his pockets and sit down, covering his lap with a newspaper. Gently playing a soft tune, Sherlock's face remained blank and calm, eyes still shut and mouth still open, breathing heavily. He looked nearly serene, just not in a way John was sure he could tolerate. In fact, he was dangerously close to getting up and licking the detective's face, but he still had some self-control.

"John?" Sherlock whispered softly, still playing a slow melody. John hummed in response, jerked out of his stupor. "P- please don't get caught like that again," he gasped, fingers shaking as he played the violin. John couldn't tell if it was technique, panic, or both.

"I'll do my best," the doctor huffed, admiring the shimmering light in Sherlock's eyes. Not tears, right?

"No, no," Sherlock shook his head as best he could, still holding his instrument to his chin. "You've gotta promise me. I'm not one for promises, but I just need this one," he panted softly, really stoking a fire in John, but this wasn't the time for that.

"Okay. Okay, I promise," John mumbled, grabbing his computer and opening up the blog. Wow, lots of hits. He started to type up the day's events, but Sherlock stood and walked to the window, the violin becoming louder, and John was entirely transfixed. A haunting melody, but nearly romantic. Playing slowly, Sherlock moved around the room as if he were holding a partner instead of a violin. His face grew calmer and normal, eyes closed as he waltzed with the music.

"You're staring, John," Sherlock said, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, his eyes still closed.

"How do you dance?" John blurted out, mesmerized. 

The music stopped.

"You... you don't know how to dance?" Sherlock asked, cocking an incredulous brow and opening his eyes.

"No," John admitted, making a pained expression.

"I... How don't you know how to dance?" Sherlock shook his head slightly, as if he couldn't believe it.

"I just don't, what's so bad about that?" John demanded, regretting saying anything.

"I don't... I don't know, you're really cultured, or I thought so, and I guess it doesn't seem like you to... well, not know how to dance. Do you even know the box step? What am I working with, here?" Sherlock asked, tapping his chin with his bow.

"Box... step?" John grimaced. Making Sherlock blink hugely. "I've got nothing," John admitted. Sherlock chuckled softly, putting down his violin.

"Oh, for god's sake,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Back again, posting in the middle of my history class, but I hope you like it anyways. Next chapter is mostly written, I'll try to get that out to you soon, but my grandmother is visiting from Florida, and she'll be at my house after school, so I'll probably only be able to update during school hours. That said, I have several massive projects coming up that I've been neglecting to edit other users' works and write my own. Woohoo. Either way, enjoy!! <3


	4. Logistics and Desicions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teaching someone to dance is hard.
> 
> Figuring out where to begin when teaching someone to dance might be harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Off we go!

Walking into the kitchen the next morning, John yawned and wiped the drool off the side of his mouth with his sleeve, opening the fridge to grab some orange juice. Reaching over the bag of eyeballs, -- John had grown accustomed to it, -- he pulled back the carton and started to pour himself a glass, when Sherlock came whooshing into the room, blue robe flying out behind him as he jumped onto the table and pointed his violin bow threateningly at John.

"You," he smirked, "are going to learn how to dance. I've muted your computer, I'm not taking any case requests, I'm just gonna teach you how to dance today, are we clear?" He stood straight, looking proud of himself.

"Sherlock, it's five in the morning," John deadpanned, glaring at the detective over his OJ.

"Sherly, it's five in the merly," Sherlock mocked, scrunching up his nose distastefully, making John chuckle.

"Okay, but you have to let me eat breakfast first," John sighed, always caving to what the puppy-dog eyes across the room wanted. Sherlock smiled, stepping off the table and jogging into the kitchen.

"Okay, what do you want?" Sherlock asked, opening a cupboard.

"You're serious about this dancing thing, huh?" John chuckled.

"It bothers me, and I'm bored," Sherlock whined, making John smile into his glass.

"I'll take a fried egg and toast," John offered.

"Damn healthy people," Sherlock grumbled under his breath, but turned on the stove and grabbed eggs and bread from the fridge, cracking them open and setting them in the toaster respectfully. "So, in the realm of dancing, what DO you know?" Sherlock asked, humming to himself as he flipped the eggs in the pan and got butter and jam from the fridge.

"Uh," John scratched his head. "Consider me five years old. I can count, maybe rhythmically, and that's all I've got," John huffed. Sherlock put his food on a plate, spreading butter and jam on the toast before pushing it in front of Watson. The elder munched on his breakfast appreciatively. 

"God, alright. Well, this may seem like an off topic question, but I need to know whether you lead or not, so what's your sexuality?" Sherlock asked offhandedly, jumping onto the counter and inspecting his fingernails. Watson choked on his toast, but eventually straightened. 

"Um... I'm bisexual," he admitted, running a nervous hand through his hair.

"Alright, yeah, that doesn't help me," Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Okay, are you a top of bottom?" he asked, sitting up straight. John's eyes went wide, and he bitch slapped Sherlock so hard he fell off the counter, crumpling onto the floor.

"Sherlock!" Watson gasped, glaring.

"Top, then. Jesus," Sherlock groaned, rubbing the red spot on his cheek. He secretly appreciated that feeling, but just blinked away the thought and sat straight again to think about this. "Okay, then you lead. That's alright, I can let you lead, yeah," He told himself, jumping back up to sit on the counter again. John blushed brightly still, glaring half-heartedly at Sherlock.

"What does that have to do with anything? And how can you tell from a slap what I... like?" John demanded, angrily finishing off his toast. 

"Well, someone has to lead. I would usually do that, but since your sexuality can't help me because in a heterosexual relationship, the man would lead, but you like men too, so it varies based on who tops. You top anyways, so it would make sense for you to lead all the time, no matter what sort of relationship you're in. Simple logic, really." John glared. "Oh! The slap. You slap hard and sharp, but your hand flinched when I fell off the counter," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

"Okay, but I still don't like it when you know lots about me and I know nothing about you," John grumbled into his eggs.

"John, you moved in with me when you only knew my name and that I knew everything about everyone I looked at. That's a little bit of a lie, don't you think?" Sherlock cocked a brow. John swatted at him lamely.

"Piss off, weirdo," Watson chuckled. Sherlock dramatically gasped and put a hand on his chest.

"I'm offended, John, I thought you cared about me," he frowned. John just shook his head and grinned.

"I hate you," he sighed, fluffing Sherlock's curls fondly. The younger's brain stuttered to a halt, blush spreading across his cheeks as his pupils blew out. 

"I- I h- hate me too," Sherlock laughed uneasily, taking his own pulse. Elevated. Shit.

"Okay, I'm done, now help me out with this whole dancing thing if you're so determined," John mumbled through the last of his toast, setting his dishes in the sink. Sherlock shook his head like a cartoon character breaking from a stupor, and blinked a couple times. 

"Oh. R- right, okay. We've established that you lead, so I'll just let you do that, um... yeah. Okay, sure. I'm gonna go get the stereo from my room, one second," Sherlock stammered, backpedaling and then turning on his heels to jog out. Walking first into the bathroom, he hissed out a few curse words at his face. His pale cheeks were painted pink, and his blue-green irises were barely visible, just a ring around his huge pupils. 

He had never been so thankful that he was one of the few people that could read others the way he could.

The rest of the time, he wanted everyone else to understand. Sure, he liked being needed, feeling useful, showing off, but it bothered him, how dumb everyone else seemed to be. Of course, Watson was a man of the human body, and wasn't stupid, which meant Sherlock needed to figure out how to stop his body from disobeying before John cracked the code.

"You coming, Sherlock?" John called.

"Yep, c- coming!" the detective squeaked, silently cursing himself and running into his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A pining/feeling Sherly is my life, honestly. <3


	5. Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're hot," John commented, putting one hand on Sherlock's shoulder, as the younger bent over to plug in his stereo.
> 
> "Wh- uh- thanks?" Sherlock blushed, his knees starting to shake as he turned red.
> 
> "No, I meant like, your temperature. You're pretty, but don't flatter yourself,"
> 
>  
> 
> Why won't John notice what his words do to his flatmate?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's...

"You're hot," John commented, putting one hand on Sherlock's shoulder, as the younger bent over to plug in his stereo.

"Wh- uh- thanks?" Sherlock blushed, his knees starting to shake as he turned red.

"No, I meant like, your temperature. You're pretty, but don't flatter yourself," John laughed, "I'm not here to feed your ego, you know," he chuckled, oblivious to the havoc his words were wreaking on poor Sherlock's heart rate. The detective took a deep breath, before straightening, lightheaded. 

"Right, sorry," he sighed, hopelessly trying to fix his hair to no avail, it was always a curly mess. John reached up to help, but Sherlock dodged his hands, took another deep breath, and cleared his throat. "Okay, so you would lead, so if y- you'd hold my hand over here," Sherlock held out his right hand, sighing softly as Watson intertwined his fingers with Sherlock's.

"Okay, what about this hand, then?" John waved his right hand.

"That, um..." Sherlock gently reached out, taking John's hand and guiding it to his hip bone. "That goes there," he blushed, not willing to look John in the eyes, and slowly placing his own hand on John's shoulder. "Okay, so now, uh, we'll do a basic box step, and then I can actually teach you stuff. Y- you'll have to forgive me, I usually just dance with my violin, and I lead that, so I- I'll do my best to follow but teach you. So, watch my feet. And just mirror exactly what I do, and once you think you get a feel for it, look me in the eyes, and I'll stop trying," Sherlock swallowed worriedly, and took a step back. John moved his foot forward, narrowly missing stepping on the detective's toes. Sherlock carefully pulled John along as he moved his feet rhythmically, the only sound in his ears was his own heartbeat, with a faint hint of his and John's soft breathing.

John accidentally stepped on Sherlock's foot and stumbled a bit, tightening his grip on the younger's waist to steady himself, which made John look up to apologize, which in turn made Sherlock blush and hide his eyes behind his curls, which made John laugh and go to fix it, which just made the detective blush more, which made John laugh and smile, which honestly just turned Sherlock into a fucking tomato.

"So, what next, Sherlock?" John chuckled, blinking up at the bright red brunette. 

"Next? Next. Next, n- next, um... Okay, well that's basically the foxtrot, and that isn't too hard, you can get that, right?" Sherlock practically begged. God, he was gonna die. 

"Yeah, sure. If I don't trip over you again," John huffed. 

"Okay, then I can teach you the waltz. So instead of holding your steps forward and backward for two counts, you pivot on your planted foot. Make sense?" The brunette asked, gesturing at the floor with the hand John wasn't holding.

"Um... no." John admitted, biting his lip. Sherlock bit his lip.

"God, what must it be like to live in you head? Okay, um, so instead of taking to beats to make this move," Sherlock rocked back onto his heel, "you'll instead move on that foot," he concluded, pushing himself backwards and turning ninety degrees. "Can you make sense of that?" he cocked a brow. John grimaced apologetically.

"Yeah... I've got nothing, what did you just do?" Sherlock sucked in a breath through his teeth, a surefire sign he was about to go on some long rant about how simple it must be to not live in his head, and how easy this was, but John didn't have the patience for that.

So, seizing his opportunity, he dropped both hands to Sherlock's waist and tugged him a little closer. "Teach me,"

Hell

fuckin'

yeah.

The detective froze, cheeks going pink, before offering a small smile, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Okay,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	6. The Learning Curve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock liked teaching John to dance. John wasn't very good, but that meant that he could spend more time pressed against the elder's warm body, letting himself be guided around. It was nice. Of course, if John kept talking and hugging the taller boy's hips so tightly, this might be more difficult.

Sherlock figured this emotion was probably something he'd once heard Stamford call 'turned on', because everything in his was kicked into high gear, and his brain went fuzzy. He nearly fainted. Every inch of his skin turned red, and he felt like he was on fire. Nodding dumbly, he let John grab his waist again, before kicking the play button on the stereo with his foot. Swaying into the box step he'd just taught John, the two fell into an easy rhythm, and moved kindly along with the music.

"Okay, you understand this, right?" Sherlock whispered, struggling not to lean down and... why would he want to kiss John? He told his body and his heart to shut up and stop being stupid, and blinked away the weird sensation in his chest.

"Yeah, but how do you make it a waltz?" John asked, cocking his head. Sherlock's throat tightened a bit, and he drew in a deep breath to collect himself. 

"I'm just gonna pull you along with me, and wh- when you get there, you can just push me instead," Sherlock offered, taking a step backwards and turning, using his grip on John's shoulder to direct the doctor's movements. It took a few spins, but eventually, Sherlock was guiding him on a clear path around their sitting room. And after a few rotations, John began to fill the lead shoes, piloting Sherlock backwards around the room. The detective visibly relaxed, though he kept his posture. His face morphed into a weak and reassuring smile, allowing himself to be controlled. God, did that feel good. He wanted more of it, to move while not thinking.

Of course, he was great at dancing, and never had to think about it. But now, his brain was just softly mumbling to itself, and he rather enjoyed the tranquility of it all. Despite being a sociopathic junkie, he did have an affinity for the quiet sometimes. He sighed peacefully, putting less weight onto his feet, and a little more onto John's shoulder. 

"You weigh literally nothing, you know that?" John cocked a brow, pushing Sherlock around in time with the music. Sherlock blinked his eyes open.

"That's not true," the detective scoffed, examining the stormy blue of John's eyes. A little bit like Mycroft's, but they were alive. Warm. Loving. Probably just in Holmes' head, though.

"It is," John insisted, "I know you're leaning on me pretty hard, but I can still move fine, and I can feel your hip through your pants. You're weak and frail, Sherlock. When did you last eat?" Watson blinked up at Sherlock, who looked off in thought. 

"What day of the week is it?"

"Tuesday, I think," John huffed.

"Mmm, haven't eaten in two days, don't need to eat until Sunday," he sighed. John wrinkled his nose, tightening his grip on Sherlock's hip enough for it to be painful. Half of that was a lie, he hadn't eaten since... oh, he'd lost count. Last Monday?

"Sherlock, that's far too long without food!" he half-whined. 

"No, I could go three weeks without food. I'm going to go a few days, I'm fine," he shook his head, blinking away his fatigue. He hated lying to John, but lately, stomaching food was becoming more difficult, and he knew he didn't need it, so he'd stopped trying. 

"I'm going to make you eat lunch, you know," John grumbled, continuing to sway with his taller friend, who tiredly dropped his head to John's shoulder.

"Like hell you will," he muttered tiredly into the fabric of Watson's shirt.

"I swear to god, I wi-" John started to protest, but he skipped a step, making Sherlock falter, and though the taller boy smoothly recovered, John had already tripped over himself again, and ended up pushing Sherlock over and falling on the detective's chest, who stared at John with twinkling eyes and red cheeks.

"I um... I suppose there's a bit of a learning curve, huh?" Sherlock squeaked, chuckling nervously.

God, he was gonna die like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ughhhhhh editing is hardddddddddddd


	7. Half-Acting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First case chapter! 
> 
> Sherlock's becoming increasingly weak, and not just physically. His body wishes he'd eat more, and it isn't helping that he finds himself practically melting over John, needing his praise, needing his attention, needing him. He sure wishes he could stop himself from making those noises when John tugs at his long brown curls, though.
> 
> ~~~
> 
> Loud footsteps sounded outside the door, and Sherlock panicked. Putting the computer on its screen saver, he quickly jumped out of the chair and sat on the desk, pulling John up close so he could whisper.
> 
> "They're going to walk in here in about two seconds. I know you'll hate me after this, but this is a party and I can't think of anything else, because we have to blend in like a couple people who strayed from the party cuz we got too drunk an-" the door swung open, and Sherlock's eyes got a little wider before he quickly wrapped his legs around John's waist, and kissed him forcefully, tilting his head slightly to get a good angle. Oh. Oh, this is a kiss. Oh, my god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY FUCKING SHIT. Y'all ready for this?

Sighing, Sherlock set the chair in the middle of the living room and gestured to it, slumping down into his own armchair. The client sat down slowly, nervously wringing her hands on the string of her handbag.

"Whenever you'd like to start," John gently prodded, glancing over at his sociopathic partner, who blinked.

"But rather quickly, I'm horribly bored," Sherlock nodded slightly, eyes darting around as he examined the woman carefully.

"Okay. I think... I think my husband is bored, too," she started, voice light. "He um... Well, he's been texting this one man an awful lot lately, and at first I thought he was cheating on me or something, but that can't be right. All of their messages are cryptic and nonsensical, and uh..." she pulled out her phone, hand shaking slightly. "Well, I got a software that sends all his texts to my phone, he didn't notice," Sherlock leaned forward and gently took it from her, turning it on. "The pass code is-" she began but Sherlock cut her off, shaking his head.

"I know the pass code," he smirked lopsidedly, showing her that the phone was already open. God, that was hot, but John shoved it back. He can't be into his best friend. The client blinked, but settled back into her seat.

"Uh-huh. W- well anyway, he's just in his contacts as Cahill, but I can tell it's a man because of-"

"Of the semi-proper grammar and the lack of punctuation, I know, Mrs. Palmer," Sherlock sighed, scrolling through the chain.

"Not why I thought it was a guy, but that's okay," the client muttered, "anyway, I was trying to forget about it, but if you see the text that I marked at the bottom, something's going to happen tomorrow down at Lake Raleigh, and there's a file attached, and then a cipher and I don't understand any of it, I was hoping you might," her leg bounced erratically, and Sherlock watched her movements intently, before looking back to the phone.

"Alright, Mrs. Palmer, has your husband ever met this Cahill man in person?" Sherlock asked, looking at the cipher key. Long and nonsensical, but there had to be something he could see in it.

"I don't know, he may have. He doesn't leave unless to go to work, and as far as I'm aware, he's there the whole day," she answered.

"Mmm, okay. What does your husband do for a living?" Sherlock asked, sending himself the text chain and giving Mrs. Palmer her phone back.

"He's a software engineer, Mr. Holmes," she said, slipping her phone into her purse.

"Okay, where?" Sherlock cocked a brow.

"Harrison Tech," she nodded. Sherlock gasped slightly, leaning back in his chair and pressing his fingers against his mouth in a prayer pose. Damn, that was attractive. John squirmed slightly.

"Ah, and is he working tonight?" Sherlock asked, examining his own fingers to reset his system.

"Yeah, late. Sort of company gala, but they're a software engineering firm, so it's probably gonna be-" Sherlock cut her off again.

"Insanely feathery, everyone'll be slammed," he completed, tilting his head back slowly. God.

"Basically," Mrs. Palmer supplied. John was nearly drooling over Sherlock at this point.

"Watson," the elder blinked out of his stupor, fixing the detective's smug stare with a questioning gaze, "your coat,"

 

 

~~~

 

 

"Harrison Tech..." John muttered, eyeing the sign above the building.

"Welcome back, Watson," Sherlock grumbled, dragging the doctor inside by his sleeve. Sherlock checked his watch and tugged on his coat collar to make it stand. John couldn't even lie, it was hot. Stretching his long, pale fingers methodically, Sherlock carefully pulled John behind him, jogging up the stairs in the lobby and around the drunk and sleepy receptionist.

"You got a plan?" John hissed, holding onto the tail of Sherlock's coat.

"I've got five, John. Don't underestimate me," the detective sighed, yanking an air vent off the wall, and gently setting it down so as not to make any loud clanging noise. "In you go, doctor," the younger sang, pointing. John just shook his head and clambered in, guessing it best not to protest. Sherlock slipped in after him, covering the vent behind him.

"Which way?" John questioned, looking around.

"Left, John," Holmes said, sitting on his knees. Pretty big vent. The two crawled through into a long stretch, the sounds of camaraderie and drunkenness echoing around them from the party below. "Okay, pardon me," Sherlock slid around his partner, unlatching the vent opening and stepping out into a closet. He gently helped John though the opening before closing the vent behind them.

"Okay, well what are we doing here?" John asked, wiping his hands on his coat.

"We're about to go... party, I suppose? I don't know, I hate social gatherings. Thank god Mycroft isn't here," Sherlock chuckled to himself, holding open the door for John. The older man slinked through under the detective's arm, into the party. "Follow me," Sherlock took John by the hand, leading him around the happy workers and into the back of the office, closing the door behind them, leaving them in the dark.

"It's too bad, we coulda gotten slammed," John chuckled, watching Sherlock jump around searching, like a bloodhound on the scent.

"Alcohol," Sherlock wrinkled his nose cutely, making it difficult for John to resist grabbing him and kissing him. He couldn't do that, obviously, because no. That's his flatmate and best friend. Who also happens to be a sociopath, so he couldn't possibly love John back. "Bad news for brainwork, and I can't spare any storage space in the mind palace," he shrugged, walking around.

"I bet you'd be fun though," John said, searching the nameplates for a Palmer while Sherlock stood on top of a cubicle divider, feet ginger so he didn't fall.

"I'm not fun, John, what would I be fun at?" he made a confused face, going back to examining the chandelier.

"No, I just meant that I think you'd be funny if you were... drunk," he shrugged, going over to Palmer's desk and wiggling the mouse from the edges. The computer jumped to life, a password screen pulled up.

"Oh," Sherlock paused, blushing. "Well, we could um... t- test it out sometime, i- if you'd like," he offered carefully, walking over to John and examining the keyboard with his pocket magnifying glass.

"I think that'd be nice, yeah. Next time you're bored, we'll do that instead of cigarettes, okay?" John smiled encouragingly. Sherlock nearly fucking melted.

"O- okay, yeah," he mumbled, deduction senses going a little fuzzy for a brief moment. Shaking his head, he sat down in the chair and looked around he cubicle. A couple pictures of his wife and kids, his dog, and all that good stuff. His ID hung from the corner, and Sherlock peered at it carefully. "Dog's name is Oscar, and he's got two kids and doesn't favor one or the other consciously, so it's the dogs name, but this company requires numbers for cyber security, so he was born in 1978, leaving us with," he bit his lips and he typed in the password. The computer bleeped, and opened up to the home screen. "Oscar1978," he smirked, opening up the file tabs.

"Fantastic!" John mumbled, before blushing when Sherlock smiled up at him. "I'm sorry, I'll shut up," he chuckled.

"N- no, it's really okay, I don't mind at all," the detective kept smiling even when he turned back to the computer, and he ruffled his own curls distractedly. "Alright, so John, which file do you reckon anything suspicious would be in?" Sherlock laughed, showing him the assortment of files.

"Okay, well expense reports is probably not it," John said, doing his best to play along with Sherlock's game. "and quarterly sales is fine, applications is vague so that's likely clean, so I'll bet anything suspicious is in either in the folder called backdoor business, or the one called porn. Or both," John laughed.

"Let's be safe, try backdoor business first," Sherlock chuckled again, pulling it up and typing in the file password. His face got red as he closed it carefully. "He may have mislabeled his files, or I don't know anything about sex, but backdoor business probably has another meaning," he coughed slightly, opening up the one labeled porn instead. A bunch of textboxes flashed up on the screen, before they all simultaneously minimized. Snatching a picture of Palmer off the wall, he held it up to the webcam. The camera flashed, and the file opened. Facial recognition. Shitty software.

"Okay, this is a better file, then," John swallowed, laughing nervously. Sherlock grumbled an agreement, and something about how gross humans were. Loud footsteps sounded outside the door, and Sherlock panicked. Putting the computer on its screen saver, he quickly jumped out of the chair and sat on the desk, pulling John up close so he could whisper.

"They're going to walk in here in about two seconds. I don't care how much you'll hate me after this, but this is a party and I can't think of anything else, because we have to blend in like a couple people who strayed from the party cuz we got too drunk an-" the door swung open, and Sherlock's eyes got a little wider before he quickly wrapped his legs around John's waist, and kissed him forcefully, tilting his head slightly to get a good angle. Oh. Oh, this is a kiss. Oh, my god. John was kissing Sherlock Holmes. John gasped slightly in shock, giving Sherlock an opportunity to deepen the kiss, sliding his hands into John's hair and tugging slightly.

Oh, god. He was making out with William Sherlock Scott Holmes, what the fuck? Well, actually, he was being controlled by Sherlock. And while it did feel good, clearly Sherlock wasn't sure how to take charge. Thank god, John definitely was. Watson grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's hair and twisted it slightly, making Sherlock moan and yelp, which meant John was now dominating this exchange, and damn, it felt good. To control Sherlock Holmes, the one and only? It was so, so great. Relishing this moment of dominance, -- and being a good actor, -- John pulled one hand out of Sherlock's hair to grip his ass carefully, pushing him up against the cubicle wall. The younger's toes curled slightly as John took charge, and everything was on fire. Everything was burning, their skin, their tongues, the air around them, and if both of them weren't terrified about the aftermath of this make-out session, they'd never stop it. John moved both hands back to the younger's hair, who groaned gratefully in response, prompting John to tug on it again. The detective sighed and whimpered, tightening his legs around John's hips and scrabbling slightly at the older's back to hold on.

"Woo! Getssssome!" someone in the doorway drunkenly cheered. Sherlock dropped his hand tangled in the base of John's hair to flip off the people in the doorway, -- much like a drunken moron would, he reasoned, -- who promptly laughed and ran off. Even after they were gone, it took another two seconds for the pair to break apart. Gasping slightly for oxygen, Sherlock slowly untangled himself from his partner, licking his lips absently as he stared deep into John's stormy blue eyes. He loved those eyes. More blue than gray, but still like a rain cloud. They were definitely darker than his own eyes, and John's were a little darker than Mycroft's, though somehow warmer. He didn't want to stop appreciating those eyes, but then John blinked, and it sort of broke the spell. Sherlock spluttered slightly, still tonguing his kiss-bruised lips, his whole face brightly flushed, visible even in the dark room.

"Thank you for being... animated," Sherlock muttered, touching his bottom lip with his forefinger, and carefully wiping a small bit of saliva off the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah, you're welcome," John cleared his throat slightly, and rolled his shoulders. God, he needed more of that. More of that desperate need to be closer, more of controlling the hardest-to-control man in the world. His tongue felt heavy, and his throat felt tighter.

Sherlock paused, thinking about what words were appropriate in this moment.

"If..." he thought for a minute longer. "If you'd like, you could keep your uh... you could keep your... I'm sorry, I'm not very good at understanding social normalities, but if you'd like, you could," he swallowed, taking a deep breath. "you could keep your hands in my hair," he breathed. John hadn't realized his fingers were still tangled in the detective's unruly curls, but just nodded breathlessly, and kept them there as the younger let out a ragged sigh, before sitting down in the chair and turning back to the computer.

"Um... good thinking," John commented, distractedly and gently winding his fingers around in Sherlock's hair. Truthfully, he'd wanted to do that the day he met the mop-headed boy.

"Th- thanks," Sherlock blushed brighter, were it possible, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly upward. Selecting every file, Sherlock emailed it all to himself, and after doing a cleansweep of every file on the computer and finding no embedded files, -- Palmer was probably too dumb to set that up anyway, -- he shut off the computer. He sat still in the chair for a minute, collecting himself and silently enjoying John toying with his hair, but eventually John dropped his hands to his sides, and Sherlock stood up. The taller smiled warmly and took John's hand, leading him out into the party.

"Wait, what if they spot us?!" John hissed, turning his detective around and pushing him against the wall.

"First of all, this is a much more compromising position for them to spot us in," he commented. John let go. "Secondly, relax. Everyone is slammed, they won't remember us. Third, they have cookies," Sherlock pouted. As if on cue, his stomach growled, and Sherlock blushed as he reached for his thin torso, visibly flinching when he touched his own hipbone.

"Sherlock..." John frowned, walking closer and gently setting one hand on Sherlock's waist, and the other on his chest. The detective would've protested, but not only was he physically weak, but he was becoming increasingly weak for John, so he just let it happen. "When did you last eat?" he whispered, carefully thumbing the taller's hipbone and ribs through only a thin layer of pale skin.

"Last Friday," Sherlock winced, looking away.

"Well damn right, we're getting you cookies," John grumbled, grabbing the detective's bony wrist and pulling him through the crowd, grabbing a plate and setting down a hot dog, some chips, strawberries, and a few cookies. He pushed the plate into Sherlock's hands, and the two of them navigated their way out through the front door, past the now-sleeping receptionist, and began to walk home.

 

~~~

 

Opening his laptop and calmly munching on his hot dog, Sherlock began to dig through Palmer's files. Plans, ciphers, and an embedded key. Furrowing his brow slightly, Sherlock carefully began to de-encrypt the data, slowly and methodically working his way through it. He glanced briefly at the clock. 1:24. He sighed, taking a bite out of a cookie. He had debated waking John, but he knew that his friend wouldn't be of much use in file decoding, and John needed rest anyway.

His next file opened up, finally, revealing a map of Lake Raleigh, specifically the hill nearby. He went into the code and found a Base64 text jumble. Converting it in his head, he typed the code into an audio file, and was met with static. Cursing, he converted the file into wavelength, and then into Microsoft, where it spelled out a message. Satisfied with himself and enjoying the high, Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed happily, popping the last of his cookie into his mouth. He opened up the next file, prepared to deconstruct it, when he felt a pair of hands silently tighten in his hair.

"Ah- ahh~" he gasped, pawing at the sensation, eyes fluttering as he did his best to escape out from under it.

"Why the hell are you still awake?" John's rough voice demanded, tightening his grip on Sherlock's curls. The younger of the two let out a high-pitched whine, which went straight to John's sleepy brain and woke him right up.

"I- I'm sorry, I jus- I just needed t- ahh~!" Sherlock struggled, but his dinner hadn't made his body strong yet, and his will was definitely deteriorating under John. He whimpered as he sat in surrender, neck stretched out. God, he hated feeling vulnerable.

"Just needed to?" John pressed, pulling a little harder on the detective's locks.

"Ju- jus- j- ahhh~!" Sherlock keened, sitting on his knees in the chair to release some of that tension, but it didn't do him to much good. "Just need to deconstruct the n- n- neeeeext!" his voice cracked as he tried not to whimper through his speech, "file! The next f- file, John," he choked out, slumping down slightly. John let go of Sherlock's hair, and the detective moaned softly and gratefully in response, massaging his own scalp, still echoing soft whines. John reached around the younger and saved the files on his laptop before gently closing it, and grabbing a fistful of brown hair again and walking off towards Sherlock's bedroom.

"You're going to sleep," he deadpanned, pulling his partner through the kitchen.

"No, John, I-" He began to protest.

"Shut up!" John groaned. Sherlock cursed loudly, cut off by the searing sensation of John's grip on his hair. He moaned loudly, but in a detached way, as if he suddenly forgot that he was still in 221B, that Mrs. Hudson was downstairs, and they had neighbors, and that it was one in the morning. He just let a broken and loud mewl tumble from his full, pink lips, and it did horrors for John's heart rate. Suddenly, Sherlock jolted back to life, eyes going wide as he slapped a hand over his mouth.

"I... I made that noise," he whispered, blushing. John was too tired to talk Sherlock down.

"And you'll be making lots more if you don't get your ass into bed and sleep," John grumbled.

"Y- yes, Captain," Sherlock squeaked, their time in Baskerville coming back to him, and putting him in a tiny mindset. John wasn't sure what to say. Captain? Thinking back, though, he'd noticed Sherlock's expression when he pulled rank. His cheeks had flushed a bit, and he didn't drop the smirk for a whole two minutes. He couldn't've... turned on... Sherlock? Back then, and in this moment? He's a sociopath, he doesn't get turned on.

Right?

"Good boy," John settled with, yanking a little bit harder and marching a keening detective into his room, pushing Sherlock's sport coat onto the floor, smirking slightly as Sherlock surrendered himself long enough for John to unbutton the taller's button-down and toss that to the floor, as well. Sherlock sighed softly, and swayed a bit on his feet. Catching him, John gently guided the boy into his bed, chuckling when Sherlock sleepily smacked his lips and snuggled into his pillows, letting John pull the blankets up over his bare chest.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed contentedly, his face relaxed. John smiled absently, and went to walk away when he felt Sherlock grab his hand. When John wheeled around, the frail boy no longer looked relaxed. His cheeks were gaunt again, and his collarbone jutted out noticeably. His icy blue-green eye twinkled anxiously in the dark, and it seemed to take him a lot of effort to simply breathe or swallow.

"Sherlock, wha-" John began, cocking a brow.

"Stay," the younger boy rasped. "I know that this isn't, -- probably anyway, -- how normal flatmates operate, b- but..." Sherlock looked off, and John took a step closer to wrap his finger's under the detective's chin. Sherlock looked back up at John, eyes pleading. "I think I need you. I- I know I need you," he choked, pulling the doctor closer. John just silently nodded, walking around to the other side of the bed and snuggling in next Sherlock. The logical part of John's brain asked him how in hell this could be platonic, but he ignored it and closed his eyes, smiling to himself when Sherlock turned around and smiled weakly at his partner, before closing his eyes and letting his breath become deep and slow.

The taller boy didn't snore, though he let out a soft and happy hum from time to time, a reminder that he was okay and his brain was slowing down enough to allow the boy at least a moment of peace. It was gratifying.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," John whispered, closing his eyes and dozing off. He earned a quiet and appreciative purr in response, until the only sound left was the soft noise of their breaths mixing in the cool, night air.

 

~~~

 

When John woke up with his flatmate pressed to his chest, he just pulled Sherlock a little closer, and buried his face in the younger man's curls. He knew Sherlock needed others, no matter how much he whined that he could be independent. And so John would protect him, even if it meant holding him close and relishing the warmth of their bodies snuggled together. Consequences be damned, he couldn't help but grin dumbly when Sherlock stirred and blinked up at him, a half-smile on his face.

"You know," Sherlock commented, "you have an impressively low resting heart rate, especially for an ex-army doctor living with a stress-inducing freak,"

"That's not my resting heart rate," John sighed, sinking back into the mountain of pillows. "I'm just really happy and calm right now," he breathed.

"Really?" Sherlock asked. The doctor nodded. "I'm happy too," Sherlock admitted, putting his head back on John's chest, enjoying his partner's slow and calming heartbeat.

This was okay.

They were okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. So I'd actually written way more than this, but my dumbass laptop forgot to save it, so I lost roughly three thousand words. I'll try to write it all back in the next chapter, but it'll probably be a bit abridged. Anyway, since I've been away a while, I figured I'd give you lots of stuff. Also how 'bout that kiss, huh? Only I can make kisses platonic! XD I promise I'll try to update more often, I've been traveling a lot lately. Also that whole Sherlock-having-a-huge-thing-for-his-hair-being-pulled motif, um, it's just my #1 headcanon, I thought of it the first time I saw ASIP and just, it's too late now, I love it too much, I'm sorry. Also, just because I love both ships, I'm probably gonna slip a little bit of Mystrade and MorMor into the mix because just yes. Anyway, love y'all, I'll be back soon!!


	8. Don't You Dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's a machine, you can't love him.
> 
> You can't fall in love with him.
> 
> Don't do it.
> 
> Don't you dare.

When Sherlock woke up the second time, he just fucking melted. John was holding him close, their combined body heat bringing a little bit of color to the otherwise pale detective's face. And while he itched to solve cases, to get his high, he realized he had a high snuggled closely against him, though maybe more of a sedative. It varied. John either made him cool and calm again, or drove him insane. Both made him so, so happy. And basking carefully in that happiness, -- currently a sedative, and snuggled further into his flatmate's chest and passed back out.

The third time Sherlock woke up, he couldn't ignore the itch to solve gnawing at him anymore, so he carefully slid out of John's warm grasp, rubbing his cold shoulders, and then padding off downstairs. Picking up his phone, he put all the cryptic messages through the cipher, and did his theatrical little gasp just as John entered the room. It was cute, no lie. 

Sherlock noticed John in the reflection of the computer screen, and debated what to say. A simple 'good morning' would work, but Sherlock knew that it wouldn't be enough for either of them. He didn't know whether glossing over last night's events was okay either, but figured it likely wasn't. So in the end, he settled with;

"Good morning, John," he turned around to smile slightly. "Thank you for keeping me warm," probably not a big enough acknowledgement, but it was all Sherlock could offer. 

"Oh, you're... welcome. You're welcome," John said, chuckling slightly as he sipped on the coffee he'd just made. Sherlock's heart, -- which he'd only recently noticed that he had, -- warmed up a bit, and so Sherlock closed the laptop and put his phone into his back pocket. 

"Hey, where did I put my shirt?" Sherlock asked, halfway up the stairs.

"Floor, probably," John replied, and Sherlock went to run upstairs, "but wear a clean one!" John added.

"What did I do to make it dirty?" Sherlock cocked a brow, walking back down the steps.

"You wore it, obviously," John made a face.

"Now you think I'm disgusting too?" Sherlock grinned, laughing. "Really, John, I though you were the only man who didn't hate me, and now you think I'm dirty," he chuckled, walking down the upstairs hallway towards his room.

"No, wait, that's not what I-!" John started to protest, running to the base of the stairs.

"You've hurt me, Watson! Oh, how my heart aches!" Sherlock wailed melodramatically in between laughter.

"Oh, shut up, drama queen!" John whined. Sherlock poked his head back over the top of the stairs.

"Oh, is Mycroft here? What'd he say?" He asked, unable to stop his smirk. John laughed suddenly, and accidentally spit out his coffee.

"Ba! Sherlock!" he giggled, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Sherlock smiled, proud of himself for making his John laugh.

"John!" Sherlock gasped again. "Where on earth are your manners?!" he snickered, before actually going to his room to find that shirt.

"Fuck off!" John groaned, smiling to himself as he finished off his coffee.

 

~~~

 

"So, for once in your dramatic life, are you gonna tell me what's happening beforehand?" John grumbled into his pancakes. Sherlock wore a smug expression as he pretended to think it over, flapping the tail of his robe out behind his so he could sit on the edge of his armchair.

"You know what?" he smiled slightly, and pressed his fingers to his lips. God, John loved that. "Sure," 

"Oh, fantastic," John put his plate by the sink, and sat down across from the young detective. A silence passed, and John knew Sherlock wouldn't break it, so he felt obligated to. "So, what is it?"

"Ah. So, it appears that this Palmer is helping to launder money that this Cahill man then plans on using to do... something at Lake Raleigh, couldn't be sure what, they just called it the event," Sherlock sighed slightly, thinking. "You know, it's way more fun when I don't tell you what's happening," he concluded, a playful glint in his eyes, a smirk gracing his lips. Those stupid, full, kissable lips. 

"Okay, but I know you, so what's he most likely doing?" John asked, leaning back.

"I literally haven't the faintest, but there's some sort of concert, gala, festival, thing going on nearby, and that's our ticket in for exploring," Sherlock shrugged, inspecting his own fingers.

"Mmm. Will you eat dinner?" John teased, but he knew Sherlock really needed food. The detective shot him an icy glare.

"If you..." he paused, thinking, "would like me to eat, I'd probably obey. You are my doctor, after all," he decided, softening. John laughed, making Sherlock smile absently and blush.

"Oh, you're horrible," John cleared his throat. He couldn't fall in love with the unfeeling machine in front of him. The warm eyes and soft smile nearly tricked him, but it probably wasn't real.

"Well, you'd better get ready. We have a party to get to," Sherlock chuckled, folding his collar down. John nodded, jogging up the steps. He walked to the bathroom, and tossed cold water on his face. He hissed sharply at the sensation, before looking up to meet the stare of his reflection, water dripping off his nose, brows, and angular features.

"Don't fall in love, John," he told himself. "God, don't do it," 

 

// Sorry, went on vacation, left my laptop, and couldn't update. Hope this little chapter is a good enough apology, I've got a big one coming soon. //


	9. The Case of Cahill's Kill-Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cahill is just a stupid puppet, Sherlock knows that.
> 
> But every puppet has a master, pulling the strings.
> 
> Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?

Panic. It was coursing through Sherlock's veins, like a late cargo train rushing to meet its deadline. The sleuth swayed dizzily on his feet, birds fluttering teasingly around his head. He continued to shake it off, though. He couldn't be weak in front of John, he just couldn't. So stumbling along, he tried to keep the loud music and the people moving around him out of his head, but it was flooding his senses and jamming his logical thought process. He hissed slightly, grabbing John's hand for an anchor. The doctor didn't complain, until Sherlock fell too deep into his panic.

"What the hell, Sherlock?" John groaned when Sherlock squeezed his fingers just a little too tightly. Hearing John's words, the detective flinched and nearly crumpled to the floor. John opened his mouth to ask what that was for, but then he noticed. Noticed the way Sherlock's knees and hands were shaking, the way his lips were chapped and Sherlock bit angrily into the bottom one as he couldn't stop it from trembling. It looked too real, and John had to remind himself that Sherlock was a robot with only the job on his mind. Leaning in close, John whispered just loud enough for Sherlock to hear, "So, how does you having a fake panic attack move the plan along?"

"This isn't part of the plan, John!" Sherlock let out a strangled yelp, struggling to stay upright. He struggled to lift his foot off the ground to take another step, instead nearly falling as the toe of his shoe dragged against the floor as he awkwardly searched for a standing position, whimpering quietly to himself.

"Oh," it took a minute to settle in. Wait. He's actually panicking. "Oh!" John quickly wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock's waist as the taller man threatened to topple over, grimacing as his hands met Sherlock's bony frame. Sherlock choked on his own breath, haphazardly stumbling until he got a good grip on John's shoulders, holding him closely. The doctor, on possibly the smartest whim he's had to date, took one of Sherlock's hands off his shoulder and held it carefully, before pushing Sherlock backwards.

The sleuth's head spun frantically, until he realized what this was. This was a dance. A waltz. He could do that, sure. Relaxing and letting John pilot him around as the beat to whatever song was on slowed down into something calmer and sweeter, he sighed, dropping his head down next to John's.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock whispered, hot breath on John's ear and neck. The elder man blushed, but nodded.

"Just dance with me, Holmes," he chuckled, tightening his grounding grip on his partner, and swaying him in time. People would probably talk, but that's fine, he just needed to calm his friend down. Sherlock's breath evened out slowly, hitching from time to time. John smiled as he held up his arm and Sherlock took the cue to spin underneath it, before meeting John back in the middle.

"Thank you for knowing me, for seeing, for observing, for understanding. I... I need to tell you more often how amazing and smart and perfect you are, John, it occurs to me, no, I'm aware I don't express these emotions enough, just..." he whimpered slightly against the doctor's head. 

"It's alright, Sherlock. You're okay, it's okay," he sighed happily. "Just right now, you don't need to worry about me. Look around, try to solve this puzzle," the detective's breath caught once more, but it was more of an excited and awakened gasp. "The game is on, Sherlock Holmes. Go solve it," he huffed, smiling. Sherlock stumbled slightly, but straightened anyway. 

"Thank you," he croaked, trademark smirk worming slowly onto his face, and he carefully backed off, though he silently refused to let go of John's hand. It was his anchor to this moment, he needed the contact to remain present. Slipping through the crowd, who were now rocking on their feet and loudly singing the lyrics of some slow song back to whoever was on stage, Sherlock and John walked around to the edge of the barrier. Flashing Lestrade's police badge, Sherlock hopped the barrier, pulling his partner with him, and squeezed the blonde's hand absently as he surveyed, looking for something. 

"Sherlock, what are we looking for?" John asked, squeezing back softly.

"That," the detective muttered, pulling John towards the side of the stage, where a panel slid out. He led John through, letting go of the doctor's hand, before closing the panel behind them. Humming lowly, Sherlock began to walk in the dim light, feeling about with his feet as John held onto his sleeve and walked behind him.

Light slowly appeared around them as they kept walking, and several long Sherlockian strides later, the elder quietly pushed open a door to reveal the tech pit under the stage, and five men tampering with the firework cannons. They all froze. 

"Stop there!" One shouted, pulling out a gun. Sherlock chuckled and waved a dismissive hand. 

"Earth, put down the gun," he sighed. "I mean, you all gave each other code names based on the elements? I'm beginning to think you're less of a terrorist crime ring, and more of an after-school club entirely inhabited by dorks," he quipped. "Fire," he directed his attention at the shortest man. "Would've thought you were taller. John?" Sherlock stepped out of the way, and Watson sighed deeply as he held up a handgun.

"You should all get on your knees," he said, passing handcuffs to Sherlock.

 

~~~

 

"Mmm, that's better," Sherlock sighed, kicking Palmer in the side for good measure. "Your wife was worried sick, you know," he chuckled, walking over to the firework cannons. Palmer let out a soft whimper at the mention of his wife. "Oh, bombs. Hardly original, not even clever," the sleuth laughed, disarming them and setting them down. "You were gonna fire those out into the crowd? Huh, that wouldn't be too pretty," he mused. 

"Sherlock, maybe we could skip the banter and move onto calling Lestrade?" John pleaded. But something had clicked in Sherlock's brain. 

"Cahill, he's here. Your puppet master. He's here. Where is he?" Sherlock demanded. Cahill just whined around the gag in his mouth, closing his eyes. Snarling, Sherlock ripped off the gag. "Where is he, you puppet?" he spat angrily.

"H- he's under the crowd. Where the rising platform on the stage d- dips, he's behind it. H- he wanted to w- watch," he choked out, gasping. 

"Good. Now, John, you can call Graham if you'd like," he shrugged.

"It's Greg," Watson grumbled, pulling out his phone.

"It's Lestrade," Sherlock sighed. 

"Hey, Greg?" John spoke into the phone. "Yeah, we got a few terrorists locked up in the service area underneath the stage at the festival by Lake Raleigh," he paused. "Well we tied them up pretty well, but there's something else we gotta deal with here," he waited again. "Well yeah, I know there are two of us, but I'm too dumb to be alone and Sherlock is too rash!" John reasoned, earning a glare from the detective. "Thank you. Okay. Yeah, bye," He hung up, and turned to Sherlock. 

"So?" the brunette cocked a brow. 

"So our friends here are going to have very sore knees... he'll be here in thirty minutes," John chuckled.

"Ah. Well, the case has been solved. Thank you, John. Now, let's go get him," he smiled, grabbing the doctor's hand and strolling to where the orchestra would sit. 

"Go get who?" Watson asked, jogging to keep his arm from being pulled off. 

"You know, don't you?" Sherlock's aqua eyes flashed excitedly, and John felt his hope for Sherlock's sanity sink.

"Dammit, Sherlock!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that I've been away a while, though I promise that the next chapter will be aMaZiNg!!! I love you all so much and hope you continue to enjoy thisss!


	10. Miss Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim makes too many blowjob jokes not to get one, Sherlock doesn't love Jim, but he sure does miss him, and shit's gonna go down.

Carefully wrapping his fingers around the door handle, Sherlock silently pulled it open, peering inside. What the fuck. What the actual fucking fuck. Well, that... wasn't what he had expected to see. He shoved two fingers into John's mouth to stop the doctor from verbally reacting. John slapped his arm away quietly in response.

"Sebby, you've gotta h- hurry up," Moriarty panted, face flushed pink. His pale fingers were wrapped in a mass of blonde hair about level with his hips. "Sebastian, Jesus, do that again," he commanded, gasping. Clearly Sebastian obeyed, because Jim left out a soft yelp, his face fixed in a happy expression. Sherlock figured now was as good a time as any, and pushed open the door. 

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything," he smirked, John practically hiding behind him.

"Ah, of course not. Be a good boy, Sebastian, run off," Moriarty hummed softly, immediately cool and collected again. He buttoned up the top of his shirt to cover the bruises on his pale neck, and fixed his tie and belt, before looking back up at Sherlock. "So, darling, how may I help you?" he sighed softly. The blonde, -- Sebastian, -- walked up the stairs and onto the catwalk, dog tags clinking softly.

"Cahill. Your puppet. I caught him," Sherlock murmured, still a little confused, and staring after the sniper as he pulled a gun off the wall and started to clean it methodically.

"Well, I should hope so," Moriarty laughed, ruffling his own hair and then pushing it back. "I mean, he's kind of stupid. He consulted me to conduct a terrorist bombing, seriously," he rolled his eyes.

"I thought you didn't mind when people died?" Sherlock quipped, chancing a brief glace at John, who shrugged.

"No, that's what happens to people," Jim mused, walking slowly to the base of the stairs. "They will all... die," he breathed, voice light and airy. "Don't you think it's kinder to help them along?" he asked, smiling.

"No, they've all got lives to live," John replied, glaring slightly.

"Oh, the dog speaks!" Jim fixed Sherlock with an excited expression. 

"He's not my dog," the detective growled. "And I'd wager he's better than your army pet up there," Jim grinned, turning to look at Sebastian, who was still cleaning a rifle. 

"Huh. Oh, Sebby!" he sang, swaying slightly on his feet. "What rank are you?" he smiled sweetly. 

"Colonel," Sebastian and Sherlock answered together.

"But John was sent home," Sherlock reminded Jim. "He got shot,"

"He didn't duck, big fucking deal!" Sebastian shouted. 

"Hush, Seb," Jim reprimanded. Sebastian just groaned, annoyed. "Now, Sherlock, what's on your mind?" Odd question.

"You wanted him to get caught," Sherlock realized. "You dragged me here, and that's why Moran is here too, he was gonna shoot Cahill if I didn't get there in time. Oh, wow, Jim. Is it Christmas? It might be. Oh, those text messages were so much fun to decode, you set that up. You knew he'd sell you, so you gave him to me... And Mrs. Palmer, you paid her. I noticed she was wearing things far too nice for her husband's profession, as she clearly didn't work," he explained.

"Mmm, I forgot how good you were," Jim practically purred at Sherlock, who shifted awkwardly. "Honestly, isn't he just so clever?" Moriarty asked, probably asking John, maybe being rhetorical, "Astoundingly... fantastically... wonderfully..." Moriarty took steps toward Sherlock, wrapping his pale fingers around Sherlock's jaw, smiling fondly at the sleuth. "clever. God, I love your brain," he sighed wistfully, black eyes peering deep into Sherlock's blue ones. 

"I'll admit that your mind is often my captivation," Sherlock mumbled, trying to relax in Moriarty's cold grip. "You're such a better criminal than all of them, James, and it makes my head spin," he whispered. John had to bury his laughter.

"Sorry to stop the sociopathic love-fest," John began.

"Psychopath," Jim raised a hand, moving his head to the side of Sherlock's and humming something into the detective's ear. Sherlock breathed a cold laugh. John was so confused at this point. "You're just a sociopath, though. Oh, an angel. I might give a limb to have you on my side," he muttered, moving his lips to brush against the stony-faced detective's ear, "but there's no person I'd rather play the game against," he smirked.

"A worthy adversary? I'm flattered, James, and clearly you've got more to say," Sherlock cocked a brow, spinning around Jim slightly. They were like snakes entangled in a standoff, sharks circling prey, cats slinking along after each other. The latter emitted a soft hissing noise.

"I do, Sherlock, an-" he began, but John stepped in.

"Again, well I'm sorry to stop your moment, but I think we're on a timetable. Lestrade will be here  soon, and we still haven't..." nothing would click in John's brain, and he was just getting more confused while watching Sherlock smile softly as Jim's stubble brushed his cheek, but the detective corrected himself and kept up a stony expression. "What haven't we done? Why are we here? We're not trying to kill Moriarty..." he wondered aloud. 

"Of course you're not," Jim purred, nuzzling Sherlock's jawline. The younger man stretched out his neck, staying willful. Jim frowned against Sherlock's neck at the detective's lack of reaction. "You know better than to do that. Not only is my toy up there a rather good shot, but..." he flicked his tongue out against Sherlock's cheek, and everybody in the room except for Jim himself flinched slightly, "You'd miss me. Did you miss me?" he directed at just Sherlock. He gasped slightly. "Did you miss me, Sherly?" 

"Of course he didn-" John started, but gaped when Sherlock nodded his head in defeat.

"Oh, you missed me, how cute!" Jim sang, sending a butterfly kiss into the air. "Ladies and gentlemen, he missed me!" John was taken aback.

"Sher-" he laughed dryly. "What do you mean you missed him! He's a psycho! What the actual fucking fuck?" John asked incredulously. 

"Clinically!" Moriarty cheered, kissing the side of Sherlock head theatrically with a loud 'mwah!' as the detective hung his head in shame.

"John, I..." Sherlock started, eyes trained on the floor.

"What on Earth, Sherlock, what do you mean you missed him?" John near-screeched.

"Oh, I think Johnny is jealous, Sherlock," Jim whispered, eyes brightly alight with some maniacal flame.

"I'm not jealous, what-" the doctor squeaked.

"He's jealous," Sebastian cut in, "and I'm offended," he grumbled.

"Shut up, plaything," Jim waved a hand, and John watched hurt flash across Sebastian's face.

"I don't love you," Sherlock explained.

"I know that much, but you neeeeeed me, Sherlock," Moriarty hissed theatrically. "But you really didn't need to come here, no," he mused, "did they, Sebby?" he looked over his shoulder. Sebastian simpered slightly.

"No," he agreed, raising his gun. "they didn't," 

Sherlock felt the needle-like pain in his chest, and didn't even need to look down to see that he'd been tranquilized. John growled slightly, and Sherlock turned to watch his friend start to collapse. 

"F- fuck you," John mumbled, passing out. Sherlock continued to fight off sleep for a minute.

"Tell me you... y- you didn't hurt him," he mumbled.

"No, of course not! God, do you really think so little of me?"

"You've done worse,"

"Oh, I suppose that's true. Don't worry though, I'm just putting you both to bed," Sherlock swayed, and Jim caught him. The detective cocked a brow, and the criminal leaned in closer. "Don't worry, Sherlock," Jim breathed softly next to the younger man's ear. "it's for the game," he whispered. Sherlock let out a soft whine as he struggled to stay awake.

"James," he hissed. Moriarty dropped him unceremoniously, and retreated up the stairs, heels clicking against the floor as he swayed his hips unnecessarily.

"Night-night, Sherly!" he sing-songed, waving a hand.

Oh, hell.

//OH MY GOD YOU GUYS I'M SEEING ENDGAME IN SEVEN HOURS I'VE BEEN SO GOOD ABOUT AVOIDING SPOILERS AND ITS HAPPENING NOW I SWEAR TO GOD IF ANYONE HURTS MY BABIES REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE//


	11. Another Game

// My heart hurts after endgame ugh also this entire chapter is just basically crack but it's got story element so you should read it anyway. I was workshopping it with a reader on quotev and couldn't shake this idea so I just had to do it. I'll talk to you again at the bottom but I sincerely hope you like this. And I know Jim is being an extra little bitch, but I looooove that for him all the time. I just love the idea that the world is his stage, it doesn't matter who's in the audience. But if you skip this chapter and go straight to the next one, you'll be hella confused and I'll laugh at you so //

 

John blinked his eyes open, stirring. Sherlock sighed sharply, holding John in his lap as the elder came to. 

"John. Are you alright?" he asked, eyes scanning the man's face for some sign he might not be okay.

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm fine," he mumbled, sitting up. "Why did you say you missed him?"

"I didn't say I missed him," Sherlock huffed, standing up and leaving John on the ground.

"He asked if you missed him and you nodded, I think that counts," he grumbled, standing up.

"Okay," Sherlock was already darting around, examining the edges of the small room they were in. 

"Why did you nod, then?" John demanded, doing his own panorama of the box.

"Because I-" Sherlock flicked his eyes vaguely in John's direction for a minute, beginning to explain, but then he was cut off by a little giggle. 

"Oh good, boys, you're both up! Please stop playing with the wall, Sherly, love, you're not going to be in this room much longer, and the wall won't get you out of it," Sherlock straightened, blinking slowly. 

"Okay," Sherlock mumbled, walking closer to John. 

"What a good boy! Hmm, okay. Now the game begins. Johnny, what's your favorite color?" Jim's sing-song asked. 

"Uh... yellow?" he shrugged, furrowing his brows in confusion. 

"Mmm. Good choice. What about you, Sherlock?" 

"Blue. Specifically John's eyes, that blue. Dark and pretty," he hummed, seeming not to notice what he'd just said. John opened his mouth to say something, but Moriarty spoke up again.

"Oh. You know what my favorite color is, don't you?" Jim asked.

"Red," John guessed. Color of blood.

"Rainbow," Sherlock deadpanned, rolling his eyes.

"Rai- is that really your favorite color?" John laughed slightly. 

"You bet!" Jim chirped excitedly, and panels opened on the walls. In one, Jim sat crosslegged. In the other two, just empty space. "But there's only one thing that makes rainbows better, and I know Sherlock knows what it is, but what do you think, Johnny-boy?" he purred, eyes twinkling.

"Um... sparkles? I don-" 

"YES!" Jim yelled, grinning like the Cheshire cat. "Sparkles!" he squeaked, and looked over at one of the two other panels. Rainbow sparkles came pouring over the lip of both panels. 

"Oh, fuck," John hissed. "Seriously, Sherlock?" he demanded.

"I'm gonna go back to the wall," Sherlock mumbled, grimacing as glitter poured in. It was up to their ankles now, and it was getting increasingly difficult to walk. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.

"Sherlock, I didn't lie to you, it's not the wall," Jim hummed, inspecting his nails boredly, but giving away his enthusiasm as bright lights danced in his pitch black eyes. Sherlock let out a growl of malcontent, and glared at Jim slightly before directing his gaze to the ceiling. "Johnny, I'll give you a hint if you'll answer this; what's the most difficult thing to get glitter out of?" 

"Hair," John guessed, noticing little flecks of light in Sherlock's curls as the detective sniffed around the room.

"Correct, good! Your Boswell is learning, Sherlock," Moriarty hummed. "One thing, and I'll give you the hint. Push Sherlock under the sparkles." he grinned mischievously. John looked over at the detective, who pulled a face, and then looked at John with basically pleading eyes. 

"John, no. I'll have glitter in my hair for weeks, don't do it, I'll figure it out," he begged. John shrugged, and grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's hair, -- which the detective couldn't dodge, being knee-deep in glitter, -- earning John lots of little whimpers of 'please no' and 'don't' but John just shoved him unceremoniously under the glitter shower, and then turned to Moriarty. 

"Hint," he demanded.

"Dear me, no need to be so feisty, John! Now, Sherlock, say something," Jim smirked mischievously.

"I miss you no longer, James!" Sherlock's angry voice rang out, but distant and echoey. John furrowed his brow in confusion, peering at the disturbed pile of glitter. 

"Well, off you go, Johnny-boy," Jim shrugged. 

"Go... where?" Watson felt a little weird without Sherlock next to him in the desolate room. 

"You heard. He fell into the orchestra pit. There's only one way out before you drown in glitter. I was bored out of my mind last weekend and Sebby found a million dollars between my couch cushions and I figured I would spend it all on glitter, because that's exactly how I roll," he sang softly. The glitter was nearly up to John's waist now, and he carefully backed into the glitter and felt around with his feet. The latch flicked open.

"Gah-!" John yelped, tumbling through the floor and landing on a few pillows, looking up at a detective covered in rainbow glitter, an adorable upset pout on his face. John coughed, ruffling his own hair to find it full of glitter, and groaning. "Still miss him?" John asked. Sherlock continued to stick his bottom lip out, but shrugged.

"I mean, I've got a job," Sherlock got pale very suddenly.

"What?" John looked around, pieces of glitter falling around him as he moved. Sherlock flicked his eyes to the door.

"What in bloody hell?" Lestrade's voice appeared with a tinge of humor to it.

"James, please kill me NOW!" Sherlock whined, covering his face, but Lestrade had already taken thousands of photos.

"Bye, lovelies!" Moriarty could barely be heard, but Sherlock just spewed curse words up to the ceiling in rapid succession, some that John didn't even know, some Lestrade thought must be from the 1600's, and several in languages neither of them spoke. Sherlock stopped shouting at the roof to shoot a side eye at Greg.

"If Donovan or Anderson ever hear anything about this, I'll kill you, and you know I'd be damn good at it." he threatened, and his eyes would usually be terrifying if he spoke like that, but all the glitter... Greg just burst out laughing, prompting a loud groan and more cursing from Sherlock, who was somehow not out of creative ways to damn Jim. "Fuck you, James!" he finished with, sinking to a seat on the floor and huffing as glitter fell around him.

"Waitwaitwait, how did this happen? And who is James?" Lestrade managed through his giggles. Sherlock opened his mouth to explain, but John spoke for him.

"Nickname for James is Jim. Jim Moriarty. But Sherlock missed him, -- even after he covered me in semtex, by the way, -- and since our favorite sociopaths are in looove," John mocked, a twinge of humor to his anger.

"James is a psychopath. We went over this, like, fifteen minutes ago," Sherlock cocked a brow, and glitter fell off of it. "Are you fucking kidding me!?" he yelled, punching the floor.

"Yeah, and Jim isn't good enough a name for Sherlock's lover boy, so he refuses to call him Jim and calls him James instead. They have a mating dance, I swear it, I wish I had it on video!" John couldn't be mad when his favorite detective was quietly cursing Moriarty with his lip stuck out, rainbow glitter shimmering on every inch of him. "Anyway, we stopped the bomb, but then he knew Moriarty would be here, so we ran under the stage into the really big, white room. And then Sherlock and Jim professed their undying love for each other," John chuckled.

"Captivation," Sherlock corrected. 

"It was actually rather heartwarming, I wish you'd've seen it," he told Lestrade, grinning.

"You know, I believe your exact reaction was, 'what do you mean you missed him! He's a psycho! What the actual fucking fuck?' so... heartwarming?" Sherlock spoke all rushed out, the way he does when he's mocking you, his brain is flying a mile a minute, or he just wants to break something.

"I'm thinking we could make it a romcom or something?" Lestrade chucked.

"I'm gonna go jump off of Bart's, he covered my coat in sparkles!" Sherlock whined dramatically, leaning over and flopping into John's lap, frowning up at the blonde, who just laughed. Sherlock glared, but his face relaxed slightly into a twitchy, small smile. He was still absolutely fuming, but he always managed to forget how pretty John's smile was. He'd need a picture of it one day, but of course, a picture couldn't capture the adorable sound of John laughing, so Sherlock just decided he'd have to beg Lestrade to send him all the pictures and film later. 

"Where would we be without our dramatic live-in sociopath?" Greg asked.

"You would have solved maybe three of the cases you've given me," Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, growling in the back of his throat when glitter flew off his fingers. "John would be..." he coughed and sat up off of the blonde's lap, standing up and grabbing a huge cloth off the back of one of the orchestra chairs. "Okay, let's get out of here," he sighed, holding it over himself. Lestrade and John just blinked at him "Well, if you'd like the press and the forensics department to see you slathered in glitter, do as you please." he huffed. "I do have some remaining dignity," he sighed, beckoning John over. The doctor stood up and stood awkwardly next to him under the cloth, yelping slightly when Sherlock wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him closer.

"Sherlock!" he complained.

"Quiet, John, or I'll purposefully walk you into the wall," he grumbled, holding the doctor tightly and carefully listening to follow Lestrade's footsteps. The two made it safely into a police car, -- no cab driver would Sherlock let see him covered in glitter, so he put aside his hatred of police cars and just hid in the back, practically on top of John.

"Do you have any idea how cold your hands are?" John laughed softly, also hiding from press, as Sherlock's cold fingers hung onto his neck. Sherlock's hand twitched and shrunk away, but he stayed curled up into John's side. It was just nice to have a grounding presence beside him. 

"Sorry," he mumbled, sighing softly. 

"Why glitter, though?" John asked. Sherlock yawned.

"It's probably not significant," he muttered, snuggling into John more. The doctor cocked a brow, but said nothing about it.

"Then why'd he do it?" John wondered aloud, looking down at the curly-haired detective covered in sparkles.

"Because he was bored," Sherlock whispered. "And this was just another game," he sighed into the fabric of John's shirt, eventually falling asleep. John just smiled softly, for once appreciating that traffic was bad. It'd be at least an hour nap for Sherlock.

 

// GLITTER! Hope you appreciate a sleepy, snuggly, sparkly Sherly as much as I do. My one hope is that someone reads this and sends me fanart of Sherlock covered in glitter. Anyway, I'll try to post again before I leave for Spain. Love y'all! //


	12. Just Relax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> f E e L i N g S w o A h 
> 
> Sherlock just feels sick.
> 
> But John's the best kind of drug.

Sick. Honestly, that was the only word for the way Sherlock felt. Sick. Nauseous didn't cut it, and neither did ill. He was just... sick. Shivers wracked his body violently as he sat, with his knees pulled to his chest, on the floor of the shower. The water was incredibly scalding hot, but the detective just sat there, stony-faced, joints and face flushing as the room filled with steam, and the floor just collected sparkles. He couldn't be bothered to care as he inhaled pure water vapor, just wishing the feeling would go away. He could feel his ribs pressed into his thighs, and his ass felt bony against the tile. His legs were barely big enough to hug, and his hipbones jutted out drastically. Sherlock sighed slightly, eyes fluttering for just a moment. Glitter fell off his eyelashes and onto his knee. He let out a high-pitched sort of whine, snaking one hand out of his little bag, and snaking it through his curls, tugging every now and then as he massaged his scalp, hoping to calm his brain down. No. Still a freight train, running at the end of the cliff, no way to stop. Drugs. He needed drugs. He needed cocaine, he needed morphine, he needed cigarettes, he needed heroine, he needed John, he needed SOMETHING. 

He wrapped his glittery hands back around his knees and chastised himself for the thought, knowing how mad John would be when he inevitably noticed. Why did the doctor never notice the important things, but realize what Sherlock didn't want him to? Well, at least John hadn't figured out how attracted Sherlock was to him. That, or he just chose to ignore it. Sherlock's eyes were cloudy and far off, and he wouldn't have noticed the door opening if the hinges weren't deafeningly creaky.

"Sherlock, what are you-?" Sherlock's pitiful state was enough to fill John in. "Oh," John held out a hand in front of him, asking for permission. Sherlock didn't move, didn't react, didn't even blink. John was well past asking permission at that sight, and besides, it wasn't like Sherlock was a pit bull chained to a post. He didn't bite. Well, he did, he just wouldn't bite John.

John hissed softly as he reached under the water to turn it off, and although he might have tried to reprimand Sherlock for burning himself, the brunette was miles and miles away. The water stopped flowing over Sherlock, and the detective eventually, slowly, raised his head just a small bit, and gave John a sad gaze.

"Hi, John," he managed, his lips barely moving. The blonde frowned as his voice shook with the violence of his shivers. 

"You're shaking like a leaf, come here," John offered, holding out a towel. After five seconds, give or take, the detective steadied himself on wobbly knees, and stumbled over to John, who held him up as he struggled to stand.

"J- John..." Sherlock whispered, the blonde's name being the only thing that tasted good on his tongue. 

"Hey, shh, it's okay," John whispered. Sherlock shivered uncontrollably and John sat him on the bed and tossed him a sweatshirt and some sweatpants, which the detective slowly and shakily crawled into. John crossed to the bed, gripping Sherlock's bony shoulders firmly. Sherlock winced.

"Now, look me in the eyes, and tell me how long it's been since you last had a meal," he commanded, blue eyes slightly angry, albeit sleepy.

"Week and a half," Sherlock mumbled, flicking sorry eyes up at the doctor. John wanted to berate him, slap him across those cheekbones until he cried or got the point, but... he just looked so small and pale, and John just wanted to take care of him. 

"So not since the party, where you only had a hot dog?" John sighed, rubbing his brow in frustration. Sherlock nodded slowly, looking absolutely fragile.

"I apologize, John, I just..." he began weakly, but John pressed a finger to the detective's lips.

"What would help?" John whispered gently.

"Huh?" Sherlock blinked.

"I know you heard me, Sherlock,"

"Yes, but... why?" 

"Why, what?" 

"Why would you care to help me?" Sherlock nearly pleaded, eyes shining.

"Because," John smiled slightly. "I'm your doctor. Now, Sherlock, how can I help?" he asked.

"Tea would be nice," the detective's mouth twitched slightly into a pained smile, and he closed his eyes for just a moment, taking a few deep breaths to make the shivers stop, which worked to some degree. "And maybe a... hug," he admitted, teeth chattering slightly as he spoke, his lip still quivering as he peered up at John.

"Hug?" 

"Well, y- yes, I mean, I noticed you run on the warm side, and I was just thinking maybe contact with someone warm would make me feel less f- f- freezing," he explained his hypothesis, stuttering over words when his lip caught caught between his teeth. "Tea for the inside, hug for the outside," he elaborated, waving his hands passively, but drawing them back to his body as ice seeped unkindly through his veins.

"Tea first?" John asked, earning a single, slow nod from Sherlock that looked like it took way too much concentration. “Okay, come with,” John ordered, pulling the detective to his feet and wrapping a strong arm around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock smiled weakly, and carefully padded along behind John, as the walked down into the kitchen. He parted from his Boswell to go stand by the island, before struggling to find a seat.

”Uh. John.” He mumbled, face heating up as he tried and failed to clamber onto the counter with his shaking knees. John crossed the kitchen, and offered a warm smile, firmly gripping Sherlock’s hips, before lifting him to sit on the counter.

”There,” Watson smiled, fluffing Sherlock’s hair. The detective was bright red, but Sherlock was too in love to care, and John figured he was just sick. Honestly, he hoped it was blush, but probably not. John let out a soft, thoughtful hum as he heated the kettle.

”I believe I owe you an explanation, John,” Sherlock whispered, tapping his finger on his thigh. He couldn’t say what he wanted to, so he tapped it out in silent Morse code, so that only he felt the words. I love you. I love you. I love you. I am sorry. I love you. 

“Probably,” John chuckled, grabbing a few teabags from the drawer.

”No, I’m being serious right now. I...” Sherlock sighed, pressing his fingers to his lips in a prayer pose, searching for the words. “I know you’re disappointed in me for saying I... missed Moriarty. But I don’t exactly miss him, and I think I owe it to you to explain why I did that,” he mumbled, icy eyes downcast in something close to regret.

”Okay,” John sighed, reaching up to grab mugs from the cabinet.

”I don’t miss him, I... well, I need him. Lestrade can probably tell as well, but half the criminals you and I are after, you do know who they talk to? You do know who they send their last words to, before they hang, or spend their lives in jail? You do know, don’t you? It’s him. And without him, his entire web crumbles. Clearly Moran couldn’t keep it alive, he’s the number two, but he can only kiss boots, he doesn’t wear them. So naturally, without him, crime is...” he didn’t have a word for it. Well, not a good one.

”Boring?” John offered, pushing a warm cup of tea into Sherlock’s shaking hands. The detective smiled weakly at his Watson. 

“Yes, I supp- p- pose that word might do...” he pondered, taking a sip and wincing when he teeth clattered against the rim of the mug. "He needs me to miss him, though. If I stop needing him, then..." he sighed raggedly, before sucking in a sharp breath. Pain flashed across his eyes, but it wasn't external. "Then he goes crazy. He'd take everything from everyone, he'd kill anyone he saw smile, burn anything beautiful, and then he'd leave me. And he'd..." Sherlock bit his lip in a way that looked painful, and shakily reached out to cup John's cheek. "He'd take everything from me, too, and leave me with nothing," he finished off the last of his tea, drinking as fast as possible, trying to restore the power in his vocal cords to complete what he needed to say before John left his grip. "God, John," he mumbled, reaching out with his other hand to hold John's jaw. He was very aware of the fact that his cheeks had turned bright red, but he didn't care. "I can't lose you. I can't let anyone take you from me, because I know that... I couldn't be without you, John," he felt tears welling up in his eyes. "I can't..." he whispered, hands shaking. 

"Sherlo-" John started to speak, but Sherlock just shook his head. 

"No, no. It's m- my turn to speak, because if I don't I- I'll lose the words again, I m- might lose you," he slid off the counter, nearly crumpling to the floor, but he leaned back against the island for balance as he gently ran his thumb over John's skin. "I don't know anything about what it's life to have... a friend, I suppose, or care. And shut me up if I'm wrong, please, because I can't lose you, John, I really can't, but," Sherlock took a deep breath and a step closer to John, peering down at him through glassy eyes, and watching Watson's pupils widen as his grip on John got tighter. "I don't think we're that. I've always tried to keep emotions out of my life, so that... that... that the work was the only thing that mattered to me. But... I've become defective, John. Because," he sucked in a sharp breath, trying to gather enough energy to say it. "I think... I think you're more than that to me, I think that I... I..." John held his index finger up to Sherlock's lips, a soft smile on his face.

"Shh," he hushed gently, taking a step closer to Sherlock. The detective's breath hitched. 

"I can't, John," Sherlock whimpered softly, fingers shaking again against John's skin. "I can't," he sighed, the tears flowing down his face freely. 

"Can't say it?" John whispered. "Or can't leave the unemotional place you've been in for so long?" he wondered aloud. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but there was nothing at all. He wondered the same as John. Were the words just too foreign? Or was the feeling?

"I don't-" Sherlock tried to speak again, but John shook his head, and he immediately fell silent.

"Just relax, Sherlock. You don't need to think," John sighed. "Come here, now. Just... relax," he mumbled, scooping the detective up bridal style. Sherlock looked around wildly for a moment, but then calmed down. John cradled him gently as he walked up the stairs, and Sherlock just felt happy in John's strong arms, and snuggled into the man's chest. He made a happy little noise and let his eyes flutter shut. He needed to say something, though, even if it wasn't what he wanted to.

"I care a lot about you," he muttered, a small and content hum escaping his mouth. 

"I know, Sherlock. I care too, for whatever it's worth," John sighed, looking down at the tiny ball of brunette curls and intelligence in his arms. Sherlock twisted his head enough to open one eye halfway and gaze up at John through his lashes. Love is immeasurable, and sometimes better unspoken.

"It's worth everything," Sherlock whispered, pressing a tiny kiss to the thin fabric of John's shirt. The doctor could barely feel it, but it meant something, it was a surrender to all the feelings he'd been fighting back for forever, and the closest thing to love he could offer his Watson. John smiled, before scoffing as he pushed open the door to Sherlock's room with his foot.

"You're a sap when you get emotional, you know that?" he chuckled, laying Sherlock down on the bed. The detective smiled weakly, even though brief concern stole his features.

"Is that necessarily a bad thing, John?" he asked. Watson smiled.

"No, I like it," John sighed, sitting on the edge of Sherlock's bed and petting the younger man's curls fondly.

"Mmm. You know I only do that for you, right?" he wondered, blinking up at his Boswell.

"I did make that deduction, yes, Sherlock," John laughed. A moment of happy silence fell, and Sherlock just smiled softly. John had the most gorgeous eyes. Perfect shade. Suddenly, Sherlock's face lit up. "What?"

"I didn't get my hug!" he grinned, wrapping his arms around John's waist and pulling him into the bed.

"Sherlock!" John yelped, flailing slightly.

"Hmm..." Sherlock hummed against John's neck, enjoying the close proximity. John turned the two of them the other way so that he could be the big spoon. "I like you," he mumbled, sleepily.

"I like you, too," John sighed, closing his eyes as well.

 

// FUCKING FINALLY BUt also not really cuz nothing too exciting happened. I mean, Sherly's got fEeLiNgS but we can do better XD


	13. I Really Do Love You

John woke up first, which was weird, because Sherlock always woke up before him, But here they were, 7:00, the little ball of brown curls still wrapped in a tight ball next to John. Sherlock let out these little purrs from time to time, and it made John smile. The doctor twisted to wrap himself back around the brunette ball, but Sherlock unfurled and yelped, shooting out of his slumber and stumbling as he crawled backwards.

"Oh. Oh. John... hello," Sherlock whispered, breath evening out, so he could crawl back to his Watson. "I'm sorry, I didn't remember kipping with you," he explained, slinking under John's muscular arm and wrapping his arms around the man's torso and humming softly. "Panicked..."

"That's quite alright," John mumbled, confused, but held the detective tight anyway.

"Let's not get up, at least not for a moment," Sherlock sighed, blinking up at John.

"Sounds lovely," he agreed, breathing in the lovely scent of his detective. 

"I meant it, I wasn't just sleepy. I like you," Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a couple tender kisses to John's neck, something the doctor did nothing at all to stop.

"I like you too," John breathed. Truth be told. he might even LOVE Sherlock, but he wasn't gonna say that because that would make Sherlock feel bad. The brunette mumbled something into John's skin, and the doctor looked down at his and closed off access to his neck. Sherlock pouted, and John just ruffled his hair. "You say something?"

"I really do love you." Sherlock deadpanned, eyes three-thousand miles away as if he thought it was bad. John kissed him, and Sherlock jumped to reciprocate, breath hitching slightly as he tried to understand what was going on. John carefully climbed on top of him, gently exploring his mouth. Every inch of Sherlock's skin was on fire, -- hadn't felt anything like that before, -- but he wasn't certain that it was a bad thing. Sherlock pushed him off a bit to breathe, sucking in air like his life depended on it. 

"That's quite fine, I love you too," John smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOT THE BEST ENDING I KNOW BUT I'M SO TIRED AND I JUST WANNA FINISH THIS SO ONE MORE CHAPTER AND I'M DONE THATS IT IM SORRY SLOW BURN IS NOT MY THING IT NEEDS TO BE CUTE AND FLUFFIER THAN WHIPPED CREAM AND THEN IM D O N E


	14. Domesticity - THE END

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank god it's the end because I need to go write Ineffable Husbands content and stuff

Violin. Their flat had been filled with the violin, recently. The sound seemed nonstop, suddenly, but not in a bad way. Normally when Sherlock was acting up, the home was filled with dissonant notes, as loud and disorderly and unhappy as his thoughts were. Recently, the only cases Sherlock had been getting were simple, smaller. A husband cheating on his wife with nineteen different people. A cat burglar terrorizing some old women. Nothing of importance, of course, and normally at a time like this, Sherlock would be crying and kicking and screaming and begging John to go buy him some cigarettes. But recently? No.

John made breakfast as Sherlock danced around in the sunlight of the living room, a blissed out expression on his face as he dragged his bow over the light and happy notes his fingers guided out. He looked positively ethereal, and John smiled to himself.

"If you keep staring, you'll burn the eggs," Sherlock mused, eyes closed. He fluttered them open to smile cheekily, and John just smiled and shook his head fondly.

"I hate you." John sighed, moving the eggs to plates.

"You don't!" he gasped dramatically, stopping his violin immediately.

"You're right. I love you," he sighed, smiling at the way the sunlight reflected happily on Sherlock's pretty curls and lovely eyes.

"I love you, too, John," Sherlock hummed, going back to playing his bright and happy song.

"What's on your mind? You don't usually play like that," John observed. Sherlock's movements stuttered to a halt as his face turned red.

"You." he stammered over his words. "I uh, I j- just really li- like th- th- the way you make me... f- feel, and uh, words didn't do it justice, so... so... so I wrote you a song. N- nearly done, it is," he mumbled, blushing and stumbling towards John to bury his face in John's neck.

"Feelings, eh?" John laughed, petting his brown curls gently.

"Oh, don't tease me about it," Sherlock whined, pawing at him halfheartedly.

"Mmm, nothing to tease about, domesticity suits you," John smiled.

"You big silly sap," Sherlock groaned, pushing off and falling into his armchair, playing again. 

"You know, I think your wedding ring does look very nice against the wood of you violin," John commented, sitting down beside him with a plate of eggs and a cup of tea, passing a coffee and some eggs to Sherlock as well, who begrudgingly put down the violin and moved his focus onto breakfast.

"Well I very much like having a wedding ring to wear, dear," Sherlock smiled, grabbing John's hand and kissing it. Watson smiled and went back to eating.

"We're like an old married couple, oh dear," John laughed, burying his face in his mug.

"Yes, we rather are," Sherlock mused, before a thought crossed his mind, and he never was particularly good at keeping his thoughts in his head. "You know, about what you said earlier, I'm actually certain that my wedding ring looks better against yo-"

"GODDAMMIT, SHERLOCK HOLMES!" John spluttered, choking on his tea. The consulting detective just grinned sweet and innocently.

"Did I say something?" he asked, munching on eggs.

"You're damn lucky you're cute."

"I love you too, John,"

THE END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He was going to say "against the bible" John what an overreaction
> 
> I'm too tired to edit so I hope it isnt too bad
> 
> Okay anyway yeah that's it. I'm done writing it. Hope you liked it. It's one in the fucking morning god smite me now okay love you guys hope this was good enough now i'm gonna go back to watching monty python and dying inside please follow me for more shitty content and stuff like this where i attempt slowburn and then lose my patience/will to write okay i love y'all, stick around, bye <3333 

**Author's Note:**

> So, how was it? Good, bad? Let me know, I'll take whatever you'd like into consideration for the future. Thanks for reading, see ya next chapter!! <3


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